


Rough Wooing

by HyfrydCymru



Series: 30 Days Challenge [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Day 4, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 05:24:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4612818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyfrydCymru/pseuds/HyfrydCymru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But when they had brawled, kicked and scratched, unable as always to meet half way, that though had returned with a vengeance and Scotland had caved to the temptation of wondering if England’s skin would taste of sea salt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rough Wooing

Scotland stormed down the halls of Holyrood palace with a dark vengeance, sent any unfortunate soul in his wake a scathing glare and sneer, and slammed the door to his chamber with a force that left the hinges rattling and echoed to every corner.

            It had taken him until half past eleven to snap.

            He stomped across the room and dug his knuckles into the windowsill until he felt the skin stretch thinner and break, and pressed his forehead to the cold, damp pane of glass with a thud, hoping to cool the heat clouding his head and the tightness of his groin.

            His plaid dropped to the ground with the clink of the straps.

            He’d loosened it with one hand and flattened the same palm against the churning of his gut, letting it drop lower to rest on the half-hardness of his sex and clutching hard. He could feel the blood pumping through his body and pressed his face harder against the glass, clenching his eyes tight, as he released the stiff hold on his cock to better wrap his fingers around the base and slide them along the shaft easier.

            He thought of green eyes.

            Established on the year prior, the process of negotiation to be followed that evening concerning the marriage of Mary, Queen of Scots, and her return to Scotland after the death of the King of France, was supposed to be a quick affair. France would be in attendance, along with Wales, Ireland, and England, the first two of which had no say in the resolution but felt regarded to attend.

France had been the first to arrive and stood next to Scotland, tagging along the Queen’s convoy in hopes of a swift resolution and a fast return to his own country, followed shortly by Ireland and Wales.

Wales, bless her soul, Scotland had barely recognised.

Nearly as tall as Ireland, she’d been quiet and kept to the far side of the room, listening and smiling sadly whenever their eyes met, and speaking quietly to Ireland besides her as they waited. Scotland had made it a point to make sure both would be treated kindly. As for England…

England stood taller than ever, back straight and shoulders stiff, every movement calculated to a fault and eyes set to the front of the room. His skin was tanned and his hair bleached to a lighter shade by the sun, and even from afar, Scotland could appreciate the toned slightness of his body.

“He’s been out at sea,” France had supplied, closely besides him.

            He’d snorted in derision and kicked Francis’ ankle; the thought had soon slipped his mind.

            But when they had brawled, kicked and scratched, unable as always to meet half way, that though had returned with a vengeance and Scotland had caved to the temptation of wondering if England’s skin would taste of sea salt.

            Alarmed, he’d promptly thrown the lad aside with as much strength as he could. He’d heard the crack of wood and Wales’ angry fussing (Ireland and France’s laughing) before storming away, but spared not a glance.

            He increased the pressure of his hand, quickened the pumping of his fist, and bit back a groan as his hips began to thrust forwards in time. The glass of the window fogged with every pant and restrained cry as a flurry of images ran through his mind. He came hard into his hand with a barely restrained shout, cum dripping through his fingers. Letting go of himself, he wiped his hand on the white fabric of his shirt.

            He thought of green eyes again and the bitter taste of bile settled on his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> This thing here takes place during "The War of the Rough Wooing", hence the title. For those interested, Scotland and France are currently buggering each other every other weekend while England's out at sea.


End file.
